The Caller (6 page)

‘Oh, aye? Why didna ye ca’ the Lord himself? Wouldna that hae been quicker?’

The voice had changed again; I heard a lively intelligence there, a genuine wish to hear the truth. Perhaps we were no longer playing games. And if I had correctly understood what this being had hinted at before, my response was all- important. ‘I have never been told that a Caller must not summon a Guardian,’ I said. ‘But I think attempting that would be unwise. I feel . . . I feel in my bones that such a call should be made only in the very last extreme.’

‘If ye were facin’ death, ye mean?’

‘I’ve faced death before and saved myself, and others, by calling one of the Good Folk to help me. But a Guardian? Not if all that’s in the balance is the life of one human woman. That’s what I am, Caller or not. If the long story of Alban was a river, I’d be only one drop of it. And if I’m killed along the way, in time another Caller will step up to take my place.’ It hurt to say those words, for I’d been told it could be several hundred years before that might happen – while canny gifts were not uncommon among the populace of Alban, mine was a rare one. ‘But I plan to stay alive at least until next midsummer,’ I added. ‘And I have faith that our challenge to Keldec will succeed, and that Alban will be remade as the peaceful and just realm it once was. I have a part to play in that, and I need your help to do it.’

‘Ye canna mend a pot that’s smashed in a thousand pieces,’ murmured the unseen presence, sounding old and tired now. ‘Ye canna sew up a butterfly’s wing when it’s torn and shredded. Ye canna make hope frae despair. Alban’s far gone.’

‘When I first set out to find the Guardians,’ I said, choosing my words carefully, ‘I was told they had all gone away, gone deep, and would wait out the time of Alban’s darkness. I know that to such ancient and magical folk, human lives seem very short and human affairs slight. But the way Keldec has changed Alban is not slight. He might reign for another twenty years, thirty even. He plans to change the law so his son can succeed him as king, and he’ll likely mould his child in his own image. For us human folk, that is a long time to wait. Too long. Alban might then be like that smashed pot, beyond mending. We need to act while we still have strength to do so; while we still have hope. You spoke of despair. But you are still here.’

‘A’ the bittie pieces o’ me, aye.’

I looked again at the tiny, bright beings clinging to the walls of the cairn or perched in its niches. Each seemed as fragile as a butterfly. Might not each little light be snuffed out as easily as a candle flame? If that were to happen, would the White Lady herself be gone forever? I must tread delicately here. ‘While those women come and perform their ritual, you still remain,’ I said. ‘If the rebellion succeeds and Keldec is overthrown, Alban will become a place where such practices are allowed again. Ordinary folk won’t be afraid to observe the old ways. People like me won’t be called smirched anymore; our canny gifts will be accepted. And . . . the bittie pieces of you . . . they would surely be able to come together again. You could shine as brightly as you did before, in the time of peace.’

I sensed, rather than heard, a deep sigh. The light from the little beings wavered then steadied again.

‘Ane thing I’ll say for ye, ye hae hope enow for a hundred lassies,’ the unseen being observed. ‘Whatever drives ye, ’tis a force tae be reckoned wi’. Ye ken the winter’s almost on us. Were ye plannin’ on stayin’ here at the Beehives through the dark o’ the year? Would the witawoo be catchin’ mice and voles tae feed the twa o’ ye? Would ye be makin’ fire tae bring the king’s men doon on us?’

‘Whisper – my companion – seemed to believe this place was safe even from them,’ I said.

‘There’s a charm can be cast ower the Beehives when it’s needed, aye. I wouldna want tae be puttin’ it tae the test. Keepin’ oot a troop o’ king’s men, that would once hae been naethin’ tae me. These days, I canna be sure I’d hae the strength.’

This shocked me. A Guardian, worn down so far that she doubted her own magic?

‘If I could stay here and be reasonably safe,’ I ventured, ‘and if you were prepared to teach me, Whisper and I would provide for ourselves. The supplies we brought will last us a while, and we can fish and forage.’

‘Fish? Forage? For what?’

A fair question; there would be scant pickings in the cold season. ‘I will be honest with you,’ I said. ‘I came to the east expecting that there would be more Good Folk in the region, and that they would help me. Are there no others of your people living close by?’

‘Nane in these pairts, or they’d be here wi’ me. As for further afield, I havena heard sae much as a chirp or a squeak these fifteen years or mair.’

‘Then I can’t ask you for more than a roof over my head for as long as it takes to learn what I must. I will talk to Whisper. He is resourceful; I think we can manage. I hope very much that you will help me. I can, at the very least, provide you with some company over the winter.’

A ripple went through the tiny folk, undoubtedly laughter.

‘I didna say I wanted company. I didna say I fancied a witawoo up on the hill yonder, spyin’ on my wee folk wi’ his big e’en. But I ken what ye are and what ye can do. I felt ye comin’ closer. I dinna ken if I hae the strength tae help ye. But ye can come in the Beehives by day, and we’ll dae some talkin’.’

‘Thank you,’ I breathed. This was a great concession. All the same, my heart sank. If Whisper and I must sleep beyond the safe area of the cairns, and if making fire was likely to attract unwelcome attention, how could we get through the winter?

‘I dinna want ye here by night,’ the Lady said. ‘I canna abide folk squirmin’ and snorin’ and disturbin’ my sleep. And I canna feed ye; there’s nae provisions for human folk in this place.’

The fact was, I would need human help to get through the winter. But I could not reveal my presence to anyone. ‘My friend brought me here by . . . unusual means. I did not have a chance to see how the land lies around these cairns. How far are we from Winterfort?’ Winterfort lay in the territory of Scourie; to the south, over the border in the territory of Glenfalloch, there was a rebel group. The chieftain of Glenfalloch was one of those who had secretly pledged his support for the rebellion. But I did not know how far away the rebels might be, or whether we were on Glenfalloch or Scourie land. Keldec’s entire court would be at Winterfort now. If Winterfort lay to our south, anyone carrying a message would have to pass it to reach the rebel group.

‘Ye’d best be awa’ tae your friend oot there and hae a wee chat. Mak’ a few plans tae see ye through. As for
where
, ’tis no’ sae near and no’ sae far. Why dinna ye send the witawoo flyin’ ower tae tak’ a look? Bid him catch his supper while he’s well awa’ frae my wee folk. Awa’ wi’ ye, then. In the mornin’, I’ll talk tae ye again.’

Chapter Three

W
hisper was back, and he was not alone. Beside him, up on the hill by the rocks, a dark-haired girl stood shivering, her face blanched, her eyes haunted. She held her shawl hugged across her chest.

As I came up the hill I saw that she was familiar: she’d been among those women performing their ritual at dusk. I judged her to be about twelve; the age I had been when the Enforcers swept down on my home settlement at Corbie’s Wood.

Whisper spoke quietly as I drew near them. ‘Neryn, there’s ill news. Come, sit down and I’ll tell you.’

The girl didn’t say a word. The look on her face spoke for her. I had felt like that myself once, as if my world had been wrenched apart before my eyes. I wanted to offer a hug of reassurance, but she was wound as tight as a harp string, and I did not try to touch her.

It was a sorry tale indeed. While I had been talking to the White Lady, Whisper had flown east and come upon the aftermath of a night raid: the remains of a house still smouldering, and bodies strewn about, some burned, some hacked to death: a number of women and a dog. And this girl, whom Whisper had found drawing buckets of water one by one from a well to throw on the smoking ruins of the place, as if she might bring back the dead if only she tried hard enough.

She sat there, a silent ghost, as Whisper told the tale. ‘The lassie here, she was startled tae see me and tae hear me,’ he said at the end. ‘I bid her seek refuge wi’ us; she has naebody else.’

‘What is your name?’ I asked her. ‘I’m Neryn, as Whisper said.’ I had come on this journey with a prepared story and a different name to use, as the rebels always did when venturing out from Shadowfell. But it was too late for that. Whisper had given her my real name; he had shown himself. This girl had seen that I was travelling with one of the Good Folk, in breach of the king’s laws. Burned. Hacked. Those women, so quiet and peaceful; the last place where the old rites were observed. I did not want to believe it.

‘Can I trust you?’ The girl’s voice was a croaky whisper, as if her throat was swollen from weeping.

‘There’s not much choice,’ I said.

‘The lassie willna talk tae me.’ Whisper sounded almost apologetic. ‘No’ sae surprising. I dinna ken if it was king’s men did this, or someone else. An ill night’s work, either way.’

‘Scourie men,’ whispered the girl. ‘One of them I’d seen before, riding with Erevan’s guard.’

‘Erevan – you mean the chieftain of Scourie? He sent them?’

‘I don’t know.’ A bout of shivering ran through her; she put a fold of her shawl up over her mouth.

‘Will you tell me your name?’ I tried to make my voice gentle, despite the anger that had flared in me at her words.

‘Silva.’ It was a mere wisp of sound.

I looked at Whisper; he looked at me. Her presence was a danger to us, and ours to her. But he’d said she had nobody else.

‘Silva,’ I said, ‘I understand how hard it is for you to talk right now. But you need to answer a few questions for me so I can help you. Have there been raids like this before?’

She shook her head. ‘Mostly they leave us alone. Erevan sends a man sometimes to talk to Maeva. She’s our – she was our elder, our leader.’ Tears began to spill from her eyes; she scrubbed them away with a fierce hand. ‘They don’t – they haven’t –’

‘Take a deep breath.’ I got out my water skin, put it in her hands, waited until she had gulped down a mouthful. I tried to think as Tali might think, strategically. ‘Silva, I have to ask you this. I saw you and the other women yesterday, conducting your ritual down the hill there. Have all of them been killed? All your companions?’

A jerky nod.

‘How was it you survived?’

‘I was sleeping on my own; preparing for initiation. In the stillroom, by the herb garden. The fire missed the outhouses. They didn’t find me.’ A sob racked her. ‘Lucky ran out, he was barking, trying to scare them away . . . They didn’t need to kill Lucky, he never hurt anyone . . .’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, knowing no words were adequate. ‘Isn’t there someone you can go to, family, friends? We could help you reach them.’

Silva shook her head. ‘There’s nobody.’

Perhaps her family existed, and perhaps they were within reach. But she did not know me, and trust only went so far in Keldec’s Alban, where brother might turn against brother to protect his own hide.

‘The wise women were my family,’ she said.

My heart twisted. ‘Silva, is there a settlement close by the place of the fire? Will people come to see what’s happened? To . . . set things to rights?’ We could not leave those women lying where they had fallen.

‘They’ll stay away, more likely.’

‘I could keep watch for you,’ Whisper said to me, understanding what was in my mind. ‘’Tis a big job for twa lassies.’

I wondered if Silva had the strength left to do anything at all. I would struggle to complete the job without her help. Whisper was not built for digging; besides, we’d need him on watch. ‘I need you to be brave for a bit longer,’ I said to the girl. ‘We should go back there and bury them.’ I hoped there would be tools in those outhouses, something that had escaped the blaze. I could not bring myself to ask Silva. ‘Then we’ll find somewhere safe to shelter.’

She said nothing, only got to her feet and wiped her face on her sleeve.

‘Whisper,’ I said, ‘she was there, at the cairns. I’ll tell you more later.’

‘Oh, aye.’

It took us all day to dig the hole, carry the bodies, lay them down and cover them with earth and protective stones. Whisper maintained a presence above us, winging out on his patrols, circling back to report, heading off again. Nobody came.

When it was done, we went up to the top of the garden, where a stone bench was set under a leafless willow. I was too tired to do anything but sink down on the seat. Every part of my body ached. My clothing and my hands were filthy with blood and soil and burned flesh; I could barely think. I sat and stared out over the rows of newly planted winter vegetables to the dark shape of the burial mound under its blanket of stones. It wasn’t the first time I’d had to do this. The memories of my home village, Corbie’s Wood, had pressed close all day.

Silva got back up. ‘The chickens,’ she said. ‘I forgot to feed the chickens.’ After the long day’s labour she looked like a wraith; a gust of wind might have blown her away. Her voice was a thread.